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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173734">Regarding the Fetish Party Dungeon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter'>BleedingTypewriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, BDSM, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Dom Keith (Voltron), Good Boy, Handsfree Orgasm, High Heels, Impact Play, In Public, Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Sub Lance (Voltron), Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:27:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith and Lance have fun in the dungeon at a fetish party.</p><p>Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Regarding the Fetish Party Dungeon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account <a href="https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952">here.</a> Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lance recites his safe words and reaffirms his consent just loud enough for Keith to hear over the <em>thump thump thump</em> of the bass, and the fact that it's expected to be the last thing he does quietly makes him hard.</p><p>That’s a dangerous thing. His shorts are tiny, black, vinyl—<em>panties</em>, really. Keith will notice as soon as he slackens the leash around his fist and allows Lance off his tip-toes. He'll look down (will drag his eyes over Lance’s bare chest) and see how excited Lance already is. He'll ask if he’ll be able to hold out; be able to ask permission and wait until it's granted; be able to be a <em>good boy</em>, so all those strangers can see...</p><p>Keith pulls sharply on the leash; forces a burn into Lance's calves as he's held at his limit (even beyond the heels). There's been a lopsided energy about them all night—an unspoken power exchange even as they'd laughed and danced—but now Lance, perched uncomfortably on his toes beside a red and black spanking bench, sees the moment it boils over and he's no longer <em>Keith</em>, but <em>Lance's Dom</em>.</p><p>The Dungeon is quiet so far. There's only one other couple playing, enjoying themselves on the Saint Andrew's Cross, and their noise is practically background. One or two spectators are idly watching, but it's otherwise just him and Keith and his hard stare.</p><p>"What are you going to do?" Keith asks, low in timbre but loud in volume and <em>oh</em>. Oh, he's going to make Lance say <em>already</em>, make him taste the words so he knows (and Keith knows and the Dungeon Master knows and the woman lounging on the stairs in the corner knows and–):</p><p>"I'm going to be good for you."</p><p>Keith doesn't bother looking down, just lashes out and fondles Lance with four unforgiving strokes before slipping around to slap one ass cheek. "You're already so worked up. Think you can wait that long?"</p><p>Part of Lance had been planning on being a bit of a brat—opushing the limits for the sake of the show—but in the moment it doesn't come to him. "I can wait,” Lance promises, and maybe Keith can see it, too: the moment he's no longer <em>Lance</em>, but <em>Keith's sub</em>.</p><p>Sometimes there <em>would</em> be a bit of a tease there: ”I can wait” with a cheeky ‘if you make me’ left unsaid. Today it’s a simple truth: Lance can (and will) wait.</p><p> And Keith can see it; growls, “Good boy,” with a dark smile and treats it like the given it is when he turns away with a nod at the spanking bench and a deceptively airy, “Hup, hup.”</p><p>Lance steps up and swings one leg over the bench; straddles the bright red pleather and huffs a little pleased sigh as the vinyl of his shorts stick. It makes him wriggle his hips to get into position. Keith’s hand lands on his hip to guide him, but there’s no force in it. Lance is <em>expected</em> to get into the proper position if he’s going to be a <em>good boy</em> (chest down, ass up, heeled feet braced to keep his spine in a gentle, prone curve, <em>on display</em>) and he knows better than to dawdle. He lets his hands dangle beneath the bench. His fingers go tingly and lax when Keith stoops to handcuff his wrists together. </p><p>From this angle, Lance can’t see him work; just watches the crossed leather X of his chest harness slip out of view. The music is too loud to hear the heavy approach of his combat boots; the subtle click of the cuffs releasing from his belt; the sharp, high-pitched zip of one of the many zippers on his pants (a shocking bright red that <em>demands</em> attention, <em>fuck</em> Lance is already so <em>hard</em>).</p><p>When Keith stands again and slides one palm over the small of Lance’s back, there’s no leather in the way. He must have ditched his gloves. Lance stumbles over a breath; lays his cheek flat against the bench and readjusts so the cuffs fall below his wrist bones to leave indents. Skin-on-skin will sting more. His shorts are already riding up. It’s mostly flesh on display, high and round and <em>waiting</em>.</p><p>“What do you say?” Keith asks, and runs his fingers down over the vinyl to the skin below. They slip up under the hem carelessly; ruck them all up so they’re barely a strip of rumpled black across Lance’s hips.</p><p>His arms go a little more slack below the bench. More of his weight rests against the metal of the cuffs. “Thank you,” he says. Keith’s fingers lash out; wrap themselves around the shorts and tug up painfully, so Lance’s cock strains beneath him and he’s forced to jut his hips back, desperate for relief. </p><p>For how quick the move is—how <em>spiteful</em>—Keith’s voice is measured when he asks, “Thank you, what?”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“Sir,” Lance answers. The fingers twist. The fabric tightens. For a second he’s worried the head of his dick is going to slip past his waistband. “Ah!”</p><p>“So they can hear you.”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Thank you, Sir!” Lance calls, eyes slipping shut (because he’s not quite there yet; can’t quite look at the scattered, strange faces as he shows them how <em>good</em> he is), and just like that, the fingers are slack, running abstract patterns over his exposed ass.</p><p>“Good boy.”</p><p>Lance loses a ‘hah’ of a breath. He sags against the bench. He’s good. He’s <em>good</em> and Keith knows it. He knows it and he’s going to do everything Lance needs so that <em>he</em> knows it, too. He’s going to make him <em>prove</em> how good he is until it’s written all over him like ink and sinking into all his pores: good boy, such a <em>good boy</em>, look how <em>fucking good he is.</em></p><p>The first spank is barely a tap: a warning shot, so Lance knows that they’re starting for real, now. Sweat is starting to stick his chest to the bench. If it were quiet, he wonders if he’d be able to hear the velcro-like noise of his slight shift forward. And then Keith starts warming him up properly; slaps one cheek and then the other in a slow, deliberate rhythm. It doesn’t quite hurt yet; just sets off a series of tingles as blood rushes to the surface.</p><p>His face tingles, too. He can feel the metronomic jiggle in his ass. He feels the bounce and sway of the promise of pain and knows Keith is watching it. And beyond him…</p><p>There are more people gathering now. A woman with a SLUT-emblazoned collar, a dark-skinned Domme with cat-eye glasses and eight-inch heels, a man in his sixties in a maid outfit. The couple on the cross are winding down. He and Keith are the only ones left playing; he <em>knows</em> they’re being watched.</p><p>He melts forward a little more; makes sure Keith has ample room and access to work as each impact’s intensity increases. The tingling becomes a sting, and the sting starts heating up, and his body’s instinct to twitch away at the pain slowly fades into a powerful surrender that gets Lance high like nothing else. </p><p><em>Slap</em>.</p><p>He’s vaguely aware that he’s sagged totally against the bench, now, rolling his joints languidly as if to remind himself that he’s restrained.</p><p>(There’s nowhere to go.)</p><p><em>Slap</em>.</p><p>The bass thumps up through the bench and vibrates along his jaw; thrums along both legs and his cock; hums in between each impact and settles around him like cotton so everything aside from his Dom’s voice is cushioned.</p><p>(There’s nothing to worry about.)</p><p><em>Slap</em>.</p><p>The finer details start to blur; there are people, then a series of eyes, boots, hands, grins, murmurs he can’t hear but <em>knows</em> must be cheeky comments about how evident it is that he’s achingly hard.</p><p>(There’s no one else he has to try to be.)</p><p><em>Slap, slap, slap</em>.</p><p>He’s here, now, <em>good</em>.</p><p>“More,” he whines, “Please, Sir…?”</p><p>Keith’s palms feel hot against his ass. The massaging no longer feels nice—it twinges something fierce; makes Lance jerk back toward the sensation in search of <em>more</em> as his cock keeps leaking. He almost wishes they were cotton or linen: more comfortable (what a shame), but stained in an obvious, misshapen blotch of overt proof that he’s such a <em>good boy</em>.</p><p>“You know what to do if you want more.” God, Keith’s voice isn’t even <em>cold</em>, it’s just <em>expectant</em>. He knows Lance is going to be good; knows his sub isn’t going to disappoint him (will <em>never</em> disappoint him, will trust him with anything, <em>everything</em>, <em>fuck</em>...).</p><p>“Please,” Lance repeats, and doesn’t have to look back to know it’s not loud enough. “Please use the strap, Sir!”</p><p>“You can do better than that.”</p><p>Lance can’t tell the vibration of his own groan from the relentless bassline. “Please, Sir,” he calls, louder. His voice cracks. It sounds silly over the club music; must look silly too, shouted from lips in a lax half-grin. Only it doesn’t. It’s not silly at all—his Dom is demanding it of him, and his Dom’s demands are free of unimportant words like <em>silly</em> or <em>awkward</em> or <em>tryhard</em>. “Please, Sir, I want the strap!”</p><p>Keith replaces his hand with his hips; thrusts forward in a lewd grind strong enough to have Lance scrabbling for purchase with his cuffed hands. He moans (another bass-dampened thing). “You feel that?” Keith asks, “Such a good boy, asking for something so <em>mean</em>...”</p><p>Anxiety ripples along Lance’s limbs—is it too much? Too salacious? Is the Dungeon Master about to intervene?—and then evaporates with a sweet, addictive hit of adrenaline. Those things, he remembers, are for his Dom to worry about. Lance has nothing to concern himself with. He isn’t couth or posturing or rule-abiding or over-the-top; he isn’t anything but <em>Keith’s</em>, so he rolls his hips back in a counter-grind and leaks into his shorts and gasps, “<em>Yes</em>, Sir, thank you for letting me feel…<em>hah</em>...”</p><p>Keith slides the strap down Lance’s back; thrusts against him harder as the wide leather promise drags from nape to tailbone and softens his spine even more. “This what you want?”</p><p>Lance is a good boy, so he doesn’t need to be told again to keep his voice up. “Yes, Sir, please!”</p><p>Keith steps back, and Lance’s hips try to follow, but he can only go so far. He wonders what colours his ass is turning in the flashing lights; if anyone but Keith can see exactly how <em>red</em> it must really be. </p><p>The music muffles the sound of the strap. The bass cancels out, so all Lance can hear is the high end of the <em>crack</em>. The pain is delayed. For a moment all Lance can feel is the impact and the resulting jiggle. The deep, burning sting doesn’t register until the next hit has already landed, and <em>that</em> doesn’t really hit until the next one, so waves of sensation come in canon, and all Lance can do is sink into it. </p><p>“Yeah,” he chokes, smile hysterically slack, eyes drifting from bench to dance floor to crowd (fuck, they’ve drawn a <em>crowd</em>), “Yeah, fuck, thank you, <em>thank you</em>, Sir…”</p><p>He devolves into babble. That usually embarrasses him: his inability to shut up or speak up when he wants to, like his mouth is a detrimental half-step ahead of his brain. Now, though, it doesn’t bother him at all. He’s nothing but good...doesn’t have to do anything but perch on his pretty red bench and show everyone (everyone, everyone, fucking <em>everyone</em>, but <em>especially</em> Keith, his perfect Dom who he trusts, obeys, belongs to, <em>loves</em>...) how <em>good he is.</em></p><p>Welts must be swelling. The impacts smear together into one long, rolling stinging sensation. The pulsing between his legs hits as an afterthought. “Close,” he warns Keith. He doesn’t know if he’s being loud enough. He trusts that he is. He’s a <em>good boy</em> and good boys ask permission nice and loud. “Sir, can I come?”</p><p>Were they at home, Lance wonders if Keith would ask if he <em>really</em> deserves it. Given the freedom of nudity and time, he wonders how long his Dom would draw this out. As it is, though, the brief, over-the-shoulder look he gets at Keith reveals a feral face, expression electric. “Gonna come like this? Just from this?”</p><p>In the crowd, the woman in the SLUT collar listens intently to something a tall, dark-haired man whispers in her ear. She looks right at Lance; licks her lips; nods and leans into whatever praise he offers in return. God, Lance is so good he’s setting a fucking <em>example.</em></p><p>“With permission,” he begs, “Gonna come like this with permission, Sir…!”</p><p>His calves strain. His cock <em>hurts</em>—<em>throbs</em> with lack of stimulation even as he’s <em>right there</em>.</p><p>“Good boy. So <em>patient</em>...”</p><p>Each hit takes Lance a little further past what he thought he could take. He can’t be enduring this—he <em>can’t</em>—but he <em>is</em>. He’s taking everything <em>so well</em> and he <em>knows it</em> and he’s still not going to come until his Dom tells him he can because he’s nothing but good, good, <em>good</em>...</p><p>When Keith gives the order, it’s not an order at all. He coaxes Lance’s orgasm out; keeps up his harsh, steady rhythm and says just loud enough for his sub to hear, “Go on. Go on, come for me, you can come, go ahead…”</p><p>The encouragement is endless, piling up on itself until it’s nothing but a necessary gist: <em>go ahead; come</em>. Lance says thank you as he does. He thinks he does, anyway. He must. He’s a good boy, and good boys say thank you when they’re reduced like this (reduced to their base, savage, trembling parts). He says thank you and starts to tremble from the inner thighs outward and spills into his shorts with an odd sort of detachment that unravels itself almost as soon as it starts. ‘Oh, I’m coming,’ he thinks absently, ‘That feels–’ and then his head goes blank. It feels like everything.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p><em>Everything</em>.</p><p>It’s the presence and absence of the entire experience. Lance is minutely aware of it; weighted beneath it; subject to it and in control of it and power<em>less</em> and power<em>ful</em> and…</p><p>It subsides gradually. Lance is still shaking when he slides back into his body and his awareness slides back out.</p><p>His knees have given out at some point, so he’s thrusting absently against the bench itself, torso pressed flat against the vinyl. There’s a sick, squelching mess in his shorts threatening to seep out the bunched up leg holes.</p><p>He’s debauched and perfect. Keith is kneeling beside him, blocking the crowd from his view, running his hands over his back and murmuring, “That’s it, you’re so good, I love you so much, thank you for giving that to me…” He kisses Lance, heedless of the fact that his face is still mushed against the bench.</p><p>“Do I get a reward,” Lance pants, “for being so good?”</p><p>Keith’s fingers stutter. His voice doesn’t lose its softness, but it gains a certain warning undertone. “Careful now. Don’t get <em>greedy</em>.”</p><p>Lance isn’t sure if his next breath is a laugh or a sigh.</p><p>He likes <em>greedy.</em></p><p>“Home?” Lance asks, and then ventures with a smile, “...more, Sir?”</p><p>Keith smirks. “Good boy.”</p>
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